


Definitions Of Bliss

by SkySamuelle



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:26:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkySamuelle/pseuds/SkySamuelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 2.25. Summertime alongside Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass, beginning with a certain reunion by his limo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

\--

Blair Waldorf grew up thinking that happiness could be recreated with sheer effort and careful planning. Certainly, if she could assemble together the right ingredients, if she took her time with the subtlest details, the result could not fail her.

If she modeled herself after Audrey, let everyone see every day what a poised, graceful, elegant princess she was, she would finally feel like one. If the perfect Prince Charming loved _her_ enough to stay with her forever, then she _had_ tobe just as special, just as perfect.

Blair thought she had found bliss inside the dreamy blue eyes of a boy with blonde hair and a cherubim's face, and the friendship of a golden girl too free and too sparkling to not get lost if left by herself. It had to mean something that those flawless creatures needed _her_ , looked up to _her_ for direction.

The other boy who completed their quartet didn't need her, but acted like he didn't need anyone, really, so she didn't take offense to that. Even when they were younger, Chuck was like that: elusive and ever-changeable, snickering at her antics like he could see how flawed she was and he liked her for it.

They competed with and mocked each other and she pretended she didn't envy the fact he could be so at ease with what he was: rude and gross and mean and antisocial. She wanted to hate that Basshole from day one, really, but she never could.

Years later, although she doesn't realize this at first, she falls a bit in love with him because he sets her free from this oppressive, stiff society girl she has learnt to become. Chuck teaches her to breathe underneath the mask and she feels herself glow because she is finally beginning to see that scheming, aggressive, _dark_ side of herselfcan be fun too, because it's exhilarating when she pushes him around and he pushes right back, instead of glaring at her for it.

For the first time, Blair Waldorf is happy because she likes herself a lot more since Chuck draws her away from the real world to pull at her clothes, baring so much more than her skin to both of them.

They break each other so many times and in so many different ways that she comes to forget it, reverts to old plans and faded dreams hoping that time can somehow run backwards.

She has to have her daydreams painted true to realize how little they mean now. There's no bliss, only the final victory over a past that will never happen again.

She wins her crown and Nate holds her close like he wants her, although it's blatantly clear that she is in love with someone else. And perhaps he wants her _because_ she is in love with someone else, but it really doesn't detract from the fact that his gaze doesn't wander once toward Serena and finally, _finally_ she can walk away from him with a light heart. She isn't happy on that dance floor, but she is satisfied, because she won't ever again be that Blair-Child who reached out for packaged bliss.

She looks at Nate and truly sees him, not through the rosy-tinted glasses of first love or the haze of a black defeat: he's no more perfect than she is; he's truly closer to a curious child –constantly reaching for the stars in genuine awe but so very easily distracted- than a real prince.

And she can respect him for it, but not as an equal…she can even love him, but not the passionate, totalizing way a woman loves her man. Bizarrely, it's now that she understands him so well that she knows he'll never be her definition of bliss.

Authentic bliss finds her again only once she has given up on it: it's waiting for her, leaning against a limo, wearing a benevolent smirk and bearing all her favorite gifts.

Bliss is in between the beats of her heart- a wild thing caged for way too long that suddenly slams against her ribcage and aches for freedom- as she walks closer to Chuck and asks him to explain how right she was.

" _Why aren't you in Europe? "_

Bliss unfurls unrepentant and shameless on her lips as she waits for the words that she knows will come soon, tasting like a sweet-flavored poison.

" _I was a coward running away again. But everywhere I went you caught up with me. So I had to come back."_

Bliss blossoms in every single part of her –mind, heart, soul- as _those words_ wash over her, as does an insane urge to laugh maniacally until she is breathless.

" _I love you, too"_

When Chuck kisses her, she feels drunk, light all over like she is just about to break into flight. Her foot even pops up while she melts against his chest, his arms holding her closer than they have been in way too long. And she needs to hear it again, to know that this is indeed happening because she has never felt _anything_ like this blazing sweetness that is spreading into her, _never ever._ And she wants, needs to soak into the awareness that she has him, finally and irrevocably.

Chuck is hers and she is his and they are not going to leave each other behind: it's mind-blowing.

" _I love you. I love you. Hmm. There's three. four—I love you."_

She has no notion of how long they make a spectacle of themselves, kissing and nibbling, giggling and moaning, because Time can no longer touch them.

It's not until they are once more tumbling inside his limo, his tongue exploring the curve between her throat and her jaw, that she reciprocates: "Oh, I _so_ love you too!"

Chuck valiantly resists all her eager attempts to hurry him along, his mouth lingering on her face and neck while his hands are unbearably slow in pulling her green jacket off her shaking shoulders, unbuttoning her shirt, palming her breasts through her lacy bra.

She's fallen prey to this giddy delirium to touch and taste and want more, always more. Her voice gasps inarticulately; her fingers fist cotton and slide underneath to find his smooth skin.

"Chuck" -she whimpers, playfully punching his shoulder when she suddenly notices that she has only her skirt and panties on whereas his shirt is still half-unbuttoned- "You have too many clothes on!" All because she could barely focus on anything long enough to get his belt out of the way, and he could barely stop touching her long enough to allow her.

For a moment, with his dark, dark eyes roving over her breasts and stomach Blair wonders if he finds her any less beautiful, now that she's been touched by too many other hands, now that he might see his uncle's imprints on her. Then Chuck smirks smugly "You are so much better than I remembered" and that new golden lightness wraps again around her.

He gets out of his pants ridiculously fast, shirt and boxers, managing to look more efficient than awkward, and she's so enraptured with the sight –can you believe that it's been whole a frigging year since the last time she saw him properly naked? - her chocolate eyes glowing as she licks her lips in anticipation, and then he has to help her out of her skirt next.

She doesn't mind at all the firm grasp on her hips while she slithers out of the garment, even sighs and arches into him: Chuck is so solid and so _here_ , she can't avoid wanting his touch all over her.

It feels so good than Blair can't believe how she managed to convince herself she could recreate this feeling with someone else. It was never the same, not with Carter, Marcus, Nate or Jack.

Sexual pleasure with other men had been a more or less pleasurable bodily function, but this… this is so much more.

Every caress exposes her and brands her, worshipful and possessive, and it's only to Chuck she might ever surrender so completely; unable and unwilling to hold back any whimper or moan.

She is content to lie down on the leather upholstery- welcoming the familiar texture against her back- and submit to his hands. They travel over every her curve and plane, gently reclaiming every inch of her skin as his lips burn a moist, patient trail from her collarbone to her sternum.

Her nails dig into his side and into his soft hair, scraping his scalp, but his answering hiss is more pleasure than pain.

Blair is positively mewling when his hot mouth reaches her breast, leisurely licking the underside before closing around her stiff nipple, suckling and nipping.

The ache between her thighs is a ravenous discomfort that desperately begs to be eased; yet she has waited so long to feel this way that she makes no attempt to seek a relieving friction. It's safer to stay moderately passive: she wants it to last as long it possibly can and if she gives in to her instincts, wrapping her legs around his waist ...

The mere mental image has her trembling, tightening her grip on his hair and drawing out a moan. Bliss is also the tormenting appetite that coils in her womb, making her feel like she might either live forever or die right now when he covers her belly with open-mouthed kisses, his increasing impatience manifested in the manner in which his teeth scuff her flesh once in a while.

"Chuck," she whimpers, clawing spasmodically at his back and forcing his head upward, her eyes rolling back as she nearly blacks out for a few seconds, tiny aftershocks rippling across her lower body. She might swear she just …well, _came,_ all empty and needy.

"You better come up quickly" her order is nothing but a growl, and Chuck knows better than to disregard the extent of her unwillingness to be disobeyed.

He crawls up her swiftly, bringing them chest to chest, hip to hip, his hand curling under her ass to urge her to drape her slim legs around his lower back. His lips meet hers impetuously, and Blair immediately deepens the kiss, clinging to him and his taste. It feels like they can't possibly get close enough.

She groans and twists underneath him as Chuck delves all the way inside her, finding her probably slicker and hotter than she's ever been, because that's exactly how it feels to her.

"I couldn't wait anymore, either," he rasps in her ear, voice rough and thick with lust; she closes her eyes shut against the wave of arousal that threatens to submerge her. She needs more, fast and hard, but Chuck stays unmoving and so deep inside, humming at the sensation of her walls massaging his erection.

Her only relief is wriggling under his weight, uttering among little frustrated whines: "Say it again"

Her nails scratch the damp, warm skin between his shoulder and his spine, gaining a shudder of delight, a deeper thrust.

" _My_ bossy, feisty little kitten"

His hands squeeze her bottom possessively and he starts moving, fast and hard, faster and harder.

"Say it again!"

Chuck makes a weird choking noise, brushing his nose along the sensitive hollow between her neck and shoulder, inhales deeply and breathes in her ear "It's been so long, I couldn't think straight. You are so wet, B, I needed to plunge in so badly… "

 _Oh, dirty talk, my old friend._ Always one of her favorite Chuck-things, so much so that it takes Blair nearly a whole a minute of torturous ecstasy to recall this wasn't what she was aiming for. "No, no"-she cried out, her head swinging violently side to side while he slows his relentless pace in and out of her to rain tiny, frantic pecks over her cheek and chin – "say those three words. "

"I fucking lo-"

Chuck doesn't get to finish his latest declaration: Blair is already tumbling into bliss and screaming, drawing him deeper and deeper until all he can do is follow after her, spilling his seed into her sopping warmth.

Shaking, they breathe and sense nothing but each other, so deeply enveloped in each other's sweat and smell and every sound. Afterwards, they'll be quietly shocked that they were so careless with protection (or the lack thereof) but now…there's nothing but bliss.


	2. Chapter 2

When they finally return to lucidity (or, at least, something like it), Blair resolutely bosses his driver into driving to the farthest possible pharmacy so _he_ can secretively buy morning after pills _after_ dropping her and Chuck off at the Plaza (apparently the adorably presumptuous motherchucker had booked a certain suite for a few days, so that they could properly celebrate). She would complain about his ego, but who would believe her, really? She can't even keep her lips uncurled long enough to feel serious while she replies to Serena's congratulatory textor check Gossip Girl's update without gloating too obviously.

An exquisite giddiness has descended upon her and **her** brain still won't catch up on how she can be so comfortably nestled on cloud nine when just hours ago she was resigned to another summer of bleak misery.

"We look gorgeous together," Chuck drawls behind her, his lips brushing reverently over the nape of her neck.

"True," she purrs as her smile stretches in a wide grin. He's smoothing her shirt over her stomach, and all that Blair can think of is how much she would prefer it if he was naked and hard again.

She is struck speechless as soon she steps inside their suite: there are slim glass vases filled with pink roses everywhere, a thousand strategically-placed red candles lit to grace the darkened room with a supernatural glow, thick ivory drapes drawn to veil the large window, and a champagne bottle in ice on the trolley beside the bed.

"I'm really happy that this didn't go wasted on Nate," Chuck whispers before nipping her earlobe to distract her from the triumphant comment he just could not refrain from.

"Prom nights are all about endings-" Blair murmurs, wistfully eyeing the tall mirror in front of the bed as his arms draw her close- "and candlelight is much better suited for fresh beginnings. "

It's so very fitting that they will consummate their passion inside the same room where he had once had to imagine her with someone else… she gently tugs free of his embrace and sways seductively backward, her fingers playing idly with her shirt buttons, loving the intensity of his gaze focused so fully on her retreating figure.

Her mind plays briefly with a fantasy of Chuck frenziedly tearing off her fantabulous black and gold prom dress in order to fuck her against the suite's door, but the nostalgia-flavored imagery pales in comparison to their glorious present.

Clothes come off languidly, and they promise to spend the evening revisiting _all_ their preferred positions. Beginning on that superb cliché that requires her to be on all fours while he rams into her from behind, the adoring tenderness of preceding foreplay forgotten in favor of a purposeful roughness. Blair tries to imprint the wild beauty of their entwining reflections in her memory…last year, the pleasure of that particular pose used to be all about a struggle for control –to her- and for dominance –to him- but now it's drastically, wonderfully different.

It's about his need to claim her for himself as much as it's about her need to feel him taking possession of her. It's owning up to the evidence of what they already know, because when he is above her, rocking his hips against her ass, his nearly bruising grip on her waist guaranteeing him the full power to either delay or quicken her sweet release, Blair gives up her prized control for something much more valuable: the physical substantiation that she's a most cherished _necessity_ for the person she loves the most.

In the aftermath they hold each other, which strangely leads to mutual teasing in the form of 'Lessons in Cuddling by Blair Waldorf: Part One' and toasting to it with a glass or two of champagne.

The alcohol, thanks to her recent physical fatigue, goes straight to her head. Or perhaps it's the natural giddiness of possessing something she has craved for so long.

"I feel incredible," she confesses, downing her drink, and giggles because she still can't believe the sensation of all-encompassing well-being that radiates from within. It's almost as palpably physical as the soreness between her thighs and in her arms. Nobody else has ever taken her so roughly -she is fairly certain that she wouldn't allow it if they had tried- and nobody else has ever gotten her so emotionally involved in sex; when she and Chuck are together, everything mixes: her heart and her mind and her body become all tangled up with each other until she can't tell which is which. He fucks her and he fucks _with_ her on every level.

"You _look_ incredible," Chuck replies predictably, leaning in to kiss her shoulder.

She tilts her head aside, humming in contentment under her breath while his talented lips continue their dawdling journey to her throat and the shell of her ear. His palm presses on the globe of her breast through the sheet she has wrapped around herself and her nipples respond embarrassingly fast, hardening to puckered, sensitive peaks.

Heat floods to her sex, pooling in painful, burning circles as he nibbles on her earlobe, the pressure of his teeth on her flesh too light to match her need.

"I hate remembering he might have touched you like this," Chuck growls, fingers digging in her soft, yearning flesh more harshly.

Blair turns to meet his gaze, slightly parting her legs, her right hand slipping under the sheet as the fire behind the startling darkness of his eyes slips into her blood. See, instinct and thought and emotion are one again, one imperious drive to act and please.

It isn't even necessary to understand to which 'he' Chuck is referring, really. They all blurred into each other by the instant they got out of her life or bed. Chuck is the only one who ever stood out with haunting clarity. Everything before him feels distant, every man except him was a mark of her weakness, her need to collect prizes to feel validated.

" _Nobody_ touches me like this. Only you. You are the only one that reached past the skin, even when I wasn't"- she hesitates, spreading wider and sliding two fingers inside her molten core, her eyes widening but never wandering from his – "in love. With. You."

He tugs at the sheet, making it pool on the mattress, leaving her nude and shuddering as his arm bends around her waist, pulling her closer to his chest. Yet he doesn't glance down at her once, even while his thumb forces down on her clit. Chuck watches her features contort, her climax growing nearer and nearer.

It's too hard thinking about how she existed before experiencing _this_. Thinking is becoming a feat in itself.

"There was nothing before or after you- " The sentence dives out her mouth with no warning and sensation amplifies exponentially with the words she kept tucked inside for so long. She had been so terrified of losing everything, herself, _him_. There's no fear now, only Chuck. Chuck and Blair, blurring into each other. _BlairChuckChuckBlair._ No hiding. Breaking all the feeling loose is a delightful respite-"I love you. So much. So much. Ah!"

There it goes. The overwhelming awareness of being alive, the joyous pleasure, her cheek laying on his shoulder, his smell and taste closing in on her. Her eyes flutter closed and every inch of her skin flutters open to the heat. She cries out and comes apart.

Chuck gently coaxes her to lay down on her back, spread open, hardly coherent enough to even move her hand away from her pussy before he guides her fingers out of her wetness and inside his hot mouth.

The sensual caress of his tongue wills her gaze to flicker onto his visage, his expression a heady blend of hunger and wonder.

Blair is too brain-muddled from her very recent orgasm to say how long it lasts, but suddenly his mesmerizing face is out of her sight and she is staring stupidly at the pale ceiling for that eternal moment before she feels his breath heavy on her cunt, his teeth edging on her clit.

He tastes her, again and again and –Oh God, godgodgod-she seriously thinks she is about to pass out but she doesn't. Instead her eyes clench shut, her hands fist the sheets and she screams his name for all that she is worth.

She splinters beyond recovery, cold sweat beading on her forehead, fingers slackening numbly as soon it's over, her throat parched raw.

It is so deliciously good. She never felt so perfect in her life. Or so heavenly tired, like a battered sailor slammed upon the shore by a violent tide once the storm has quieted.

Chuck kisses his way up from her thigh to her belly button and the next thing she knows, her lips are opening on autopilot to enthusiastically welcome his tongue, and his hardness is brushing her tummy.

"Again," she hears herself groaning, and fuck, she truly has no idea of where she finds the strength to roll them over so she can straddle and sink onto him, little by little. Chuck wastes the most colorful litany of swear words to manifest his appreciation, twisting and arching underneath her while she tortures both of them with an excruciatingly languorous rhythm.

Blair focuses on rolling her hips just right, undulating to the rhythm of a primal tune that is reverberating only inside the circuits of her mind. Pleasure rises and falls inside her with each gyrating motion, growing and crashing with an unprecedented sort of patient hunger.

She smiles radiantly down at Chuck, finding him seemingly transfixed by her bouncing tits, breathing hard through his teeth like he's trying very hard to not blow his load inside her. Her smile morphs into a more devious smirk and she flexes forward, bracing her arms on the mattress on each side of him, squeezing his cock intentionally harder, then less hard, then harder again. Her breasts brush his hairy chest and her sex grips him tighter, deeper …then she clenches her jaw and takes one deep breath through her nose, preventing herself from reaching the peak for just long enough to feel Chuck – _her_ Chuck- tensing uselessly and finally quivering. Blair throws her head back and gives out, shrieking his name and melting all over, her center rippling quickest and hardest just while his warm semen is filling her.

Soon, she collapses beside him like a ragdoll, utterly exhausted but deliciously fulfilled. A pleased purr works its path out of her mouth when _his_ arm drapes over her shoulder, silently inviting her to coil against his side.

"Fuck, Blair, that was incredible," Chuck pants in unconcealed awe, his fingers absentmindedly combing her matted hair.

This is her Heaven, she decides. Who cares if Yale doesn't want her, and for the first time in history she has no plan and no Serena to back her up? All she needs is right here. The hurting, the begging, the waiting and the despairing, the crying and the going in circles were all worth it. Totally.

"I _am_ incredible."

"And modest."

"And exhausted."

"And you look like a goddess when you cum. "

Her smile grows so impossibly wide that she is not sure she will ever be able to take it off her swollen lips. "Tell me again when I recover and perhaps I will thank you properly."

They stay in that position, 'resting their eyes' and occasionally dropping a playful quip, for less time than it's probably healthy, but in the end Chuck doesn't need to say anything to get his earlier _favor_ returned. Blair much prefers the surprise effect.

"What are you doing? " he grumbles, without worrying enough to see for himself as he senses her getting up.

"Please, I'll be very disappointed if I must actually explain it to you. More to the point, everybody knows how dangerous it is to owe a bet to a Bass, and I like paying mine in full. "

Even though he always prefers to have the last word, Chuck finds he has very little to say in response to that. Really, there's not much to say when _Blair Waldorf_ is bent over him and her tongue is stroking his dick to life.

This is his personal, sinful version of Heaven. It's beyond him, how he could have wasted so much time running from _this_ , from her, his virginal siren, his forbidden fruit. He led them straight to the point of no return, where it was about either walking away for the last time or holding on and letting her take everything he had left of himself.

What he has learned is that he can never let go of her. He can give up the Van der Woodsens to Rufus and Jenny, and he can let Nate drift away –perhaps forever, this time- but without Blair there's just no Chuck Bass.

He was born to drown in her taste, her perfume, her mewling noises of bliss. To spy on her and to watch over her, to plot with her, to sheath his cock in her wet heat.

Like right now.

To be engulfed inside her mouth is to be reborn. She is the last one left who can break him, but it's no longer terrifying because there's nothing standing between them. Now he has chased away from her flesh the ghosts of others' caresses, now she belongs to him as certainly as he belongs to her, nothing exists except his cock, her mouth, her tongue, the nerve-fraying pleasure, the freedom of his love for her, the balm of her love for him.

 _I love you so much that it consumes me_ , his beautiful lover said, and he wonders fleetingly if she even suspects how much the running and the fighting have consumed _him_. It's such a relief to finally let go of all the pretences, all the resistance to the fire that laps up his insides, consuming anything in its path until his eyes are rolling back, blood is pounding into his ears and the only word echoing in his brain is the name he is moaning without any restrain.

' _Blair.'_

His definition of bliss.

Sweet and fierce, pure and sensual, _his_ nasty bitch with a soft, loyal heart. To love another after her would be the ultimate insult.

"Fuck," he yelped, feeling his tip hit the back of her throat. Her tongue swirled around his engorged length, mimicking the sweet flutter of her damp walls around his dick when she came, and the sensation tore his mind apart, violently snaking through his jolting body. He bowed upward and emptied himself within her welcoming warmth.

For some time he lingers in a state of pleasurable non-existence, his eyes open although he can't see, breathing harshly but unable to formulate a coherent thought.

When he comes out from his haze she's resting her face on his stomach, her arm hugging his waist.

This woman is the best thing on the planet, he thinks as he drifts his fingers through her silken tresses. He can't make sense of why sex is so different, so unimaginably intense. He doubts it's the experience she has gained with other men and his pride won't allow him to admit the truth. _That he needed to spill the words as much she did._

Caressing her shoulders and hair, Chuck lulls himself into sleep for about twenty minutes, awakening to see Blair sitting on the opposite part of the bed, enveloped in a black silk dressing gown, legs folded underneath her weight and glaring at a little box in her hands _._

She's quite the vision, with her lovely tresses mussed and her doe eyes narrowed on the target, full pink lips pouting and pale skin tone flattered by the candlelight and the black garment. It's something he wants to remember well years from now, so he watches her intensely enough to imprint the image into his retinas.

Blair notices the scrutiny and meets his gaze with a tiny smile, holding the rectangular package up "RU180. Arthur just brought it up."

"Have you taken it already?"

She nods "We need to stay smart next time. I'm not fond of the idea of using it again."

He doesn't really like it either; he has heard a few girls complaining that it caused them to bleed sometimes, throughout his years of rampant womanizing. He used to keep the prescription around for those rare occasions when both he and his flavor-of-the-night were too high or drunk to think ahead or remember if they had been safe or not, but so far he has always respected Blair more than that. But, since he _is_ Chuck Bass he does roll his eyes at her instead of saying that.

"You realize that you have not actually killed anything, do you? The whole purpose is stopping your little egg from implanting to multiply into something alive. "

"I do know."– glaring, she throws a pillow at his head- "I'm kind of surprised that you do too. "

"Ye of little faith. I am a worldly man."

Her mouth crinkles and her eyes gleam like she's about to tease him, but someone rings at the door before they can verbally dissect why he secretly loves Googling the strangest things.

"I called room service in," Blair explains, and she jumps down from the bed to let in the server.

He must smirk when he notices what is on the tray, because their menu includes two impressive cups overfilled with ice cream and strawberries dipped in chocolate, a spray can of whipped cream, and a tin of chocolate syrup.

Blair shrugs off her dressing gown as soon as the maid is gone. Chuck can't avoid staring at the magnificent femininity of her naked figure as she shifts closer to him, waving the whipped cream can under his chin with a coy grin. "Aren't you hungry?"

"You will be the death of me, Waldorf."

And three hours later, after they fed each other in the dirtiest fashion imaginable and had to take the most exhausting shower of his life to wash away the residual stickiness, there are only things he's absolutely certain of:

A: he has created a _monster_.

B: Blair's tongue probably licked places on him that even _he_ didn't know existed. And that's saying something.

C: There's _truly_ a limited number of times you are allowed to cum before all your limbs give out and you begin to see double. He has always wanted to test it.

D: This is definitely how he wants to die. That monster can have him until then.


	3. Chapter 3

"We need to get out of this room, " Chuck mumbles, not quite happy with the idea, but unable to think of another way to contain this sexual fever that is pretty much _possessing_ them.

Shit, he still can't move. His whole body feels heavy and sore.

"That's easy for you to say."

Blair whispers back. He was the one who had gallivanted around with professionals in her absence. She was the one who had to do with stand-ins who were either stiff and positively conservative – Marcus- or slightly unimaginative – Nate- or experienced and eager jerks who gave her the standard treatment because they didn't know _her_ – Carter- or who wrapped around her drunken self before she could realize that scotch-breath and aftertaste didn't equal Chuck – that Jack-ass. And even while her body got its variable degrees of satisfaction from being desired and touched, the pleasure never lingered, never fortified her past her orgasm.

She had been too needy to stand on her own and too weak to not allow the only one she truly wanted to push her away, but since she's had him again, she can't stop making a mental list of all the things they need to re-experience:

 _So… food sex, check. Shower sex, check. Me on top, check._ _Oral, check for both me and him, amazing doggy-style, check. Limo sex, check_.

At the last one, Blair feels like melting, because it's just so romantic that they had their reunion on the very same seat where everything had started.

Giggles bubble up to her mouth and she wonders, rolling on her side to face him, if it's possible to actually get drunk on happiness.

"I feel like someone has just electrocuted me, " she admits, a fat, beatific grin plastered on her flushed face.

"I know," Chuck grins back to her, curling his arm under his head. "It's totally a first for me"

It sounds like he's gleeful over it, and she can't avoid asking smugly, "What, having sex until you lose all sense of time? "

That's the strange, amazing thing: In between rather enthusiastic sex rows and comfy naps, they somehow succeeded in spending almost twelve hours confined inside a Plaza suite. Was it really just yesterday evening that they had finally found each other? Strangely, it feels like it was both forever and too a short time span ago.

They had no notion that the night and the morning had passed until they checked and were flabbergasted to realize it was still evening… of the following day.

It should at least be a bit stinging that Eleanor has not even called –or assumedly noticed that her only daughter is absent- but she can't bring herself to care, really.

Oh, wait. She does vaguely remember sending a text.

Maybe having a taste of that mystifying, fulfilled, love- laced happiness is really like being drunk on the finest champagne: it makes everything around you so golden and lighter and brighter that anything else simply fades to dull and unimportant in comparison. Right now, it's like no pain can touch her, no defeat can crack her.

"No, being so sexually abused that the inside of my head feels wiped clean."

He thinks he has had nights like that, when night stretched into the following night without his notice, stealing him away from the real world. It was always under the influence of some illegal substance and he never used to feel this _good._ This carefree. This free.

Today is all different: Chuck Bass is the king of the world and Blair Waldorf is his Queen.

"Poor boy, " she pouts in a playful sort of mockery.

" _Lucky man_ "– he corrects her, smirking, and it does make her smile wider because A) she ADORES all his smirks and B) she never dared to picture them getting so close to honeyed corniness.

"Do you know what would make this day even more perfect, lucky man? Watching 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' from this bed."

Chuck regards her gushing attitude with a slight arch of his eyebrow, a bit worried about his girlfriend's obsessive-compulsive fascination with watching the same movies again and again, then smirks as an intriguing idea runs trough his brain.

"We can have Dorota bring the DVD over, and then we put it on so I can hold your hand while you sit in my lap and I fuck you right through your favorite scene "

The way her brown eyes widen to saucers and her lips fall open in a lovely little 'O' is almost more comical than charming, and Chuck is quite regretful that he didn't think to have his cell phone camera immortalize her expression when she shocks the hell out of him with her next comment: " That would be so…so _hot_."

Er, this ( _his_ ) girl apparently has the oddest kinks on the continent. He cannot wait to rediscover them all over again, especially since they will need to find a new role-playing fantasy to substitute the lost and mourned Yale-talk.

He chuckles as he sees her sit up primly and grab her cell phone from her bedside table. He sneaks his arm around her waist and closes his hand around her smaller one, stopping her from calling her oh- so- useful maid.

"Let's keep that project for another day."

"Chuck Bass"-she gapes, and she would look outraged if not for the light dancing in her eyes– "are you actually postponing sex? "

" I'm trying to save our lives here. Besides, I got twelve unread messages from Eric, each one a testament to how clingy Little Jenny can become when invading your mansion with her dad, who apparently is groping Lily all over the place. Big Brother Duties implore me to rescue him."

Blair frowns at that, thinking of how uncomfortable the Humphrey's moving in might be for Chuck so soon after Bart's death. Granted, no one really expected more restraint (or tact?) from Lily, and she doesn't think the older Bass deserved all the posthumous concerns he had arisen, but no logic and no history can change Chuck's feelings.

"Eric seriously needs to learn to mark boundaries on his own. If he doesn't learn to say no to the new Queen J, she will boss him into a vegetative state. "

"Are you refusing his invitation to double date with him and Jonathan?"

That offer considerably brightens her spirit. Showing off Chuck as hers before all their acquaintances and, most importantly, all the potential skanks of Manhattan sounds nearly as good as Chuck-sex.

"Where are we going?"

"Some artsy club's opening in Soho."

"Sounds perfect."

It's certainly a sarcastic line but Eric is Eric and Chuck is discovering he can never truly refuse him since that overdramatic, drunken public disowning at Bart's funeral.

"I don't know how he does it, but his puppy eyes carry through the phone, even in text messages." He tries to justify, with a studiously careless shrug which Blair finds hopelessly endearing.

"It's the raw power of being the last artlessly good person on the Upper East Side." She acknowledges, a glowing grin seemingly fixed on her abused and bare lips. Frankly, there's a large chance that Eric Van der Woodsen is the one genuinely decent element they know and the fact that he practically radiates fragility and love-starvation makes even Bitchy Bad Blair more malleable. She can see why Chuck would give in to him.

However, she and Chuck must disentangle long enough to make themselves presentable for the night, and that doesn't please her at all. But then again, what are a few hours without Chuck Bass after weeks, months of separation? Absolutely nothing.

It doesn't mean she has to like it, and maybe his thinking is running along the same lines because his expression clouds over briefly before he suggests, "We have plenty of time to shop for matching outfits."

He smiles a challenging, almost childlike smile while he says that, and it's the cutest thing she has ever seen or (probably) will ever see where the sweet department concerns Chuck Bass.

Blair brings her hands together in an unconsciously theatrical clapping gesture, excitement spreading inside her as a most intriguing initiative occurs her "We can raid my mother's store and pick among the new line models! "

 _Yes, yes, yes!_ Suddenly she can't wait to dress her _boyfriend_ in Waldorf originals. Way to make a statement to all those sluts …

Chuck takes note of her palpable enthusiasm with a certain satisfaction of his own; there's something appealing about being literally enveloped in Blair Waldorf and he has always loved that supernatural ability of theirs to match without planning it. He decides he would like the chance to dress Blair up for their first public outing enough to risk resembling anything remotely whipped. It'll be like leaving a Chuck-Bass-was-here signature on her petite body.

Moreover, Blair exudes style and class - always did, save for a few embarrassing occasions at whose memories he still shivers – so he can trust her to not ruin his reputation as a man of style.

"Oh God!" -said girl whines suddenly, sitting a bit straighter- "we need to go right now! I'm full of hickeys everywhere! I won't be able to show any hint of neck or shoulder, do you know how long it will take to find a remotely appropriate dress? "

"Wonderful," Chuck replies placidly, leaning back comfortably on the pillow with an air of pensive approval.

"There's nothing _wonderful_ in me being forced to attire myself like a nun just because you can't contain yourself, Bass "

"I do it to spare your tender sensibilities, _Waldorf_. If I contained myself, then you would feel guilty for skinning my back. And to respond to your indirect questioning, I like the image of you covered up from your jaw to your ankles. It reminds me of those _ancient_ times in which I had yet to conquer your hidden places and you were all about inhibited libido and vestal virgin attitude."

"I was not!"

Chuck gives her a lazy, lopsided grin that, coupled with the eloquent raising of his eyebrows, suggests quite the contrary. Faced with such vehemence, she can't avoid feeling slightly defensive. The memory isn't exactly flattering.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. I found it very attractive. All those layers of fashionable clothing were basically an invitation to mentally strip you naked. "

That does make her feel slightly better. And _slightly_ incredulous, in a _faintly_ hopeful kind of way. "Did you use to fantasize about undressing your best friend's girlfriend? "

It's a loaded question, pronounced so that the mischievous dare in her voice will cover the sincere and sudden need to know for certain and in ample detail.

"I would have mentally undressed anyone, Blair. "

 _Even Serena?_ She is tempted to fire back, but she doesn't. It's a little soon to start domesticating this Bass with the jealous girlfriend act. Especially since that smug air of his seems meant to rile up her temper. What's more, Serena's fashion preferences always tended to not leave much of her body to the imagination.

"Great."

"But if it's of any comfort, you were my most constant reference while jerking off. "

"You are such a romantic."

"I try."


	4. Chapter 4

What Chuck doesn't say to Blair during the limo ride from the Eleanor Waldorf atelier to Soho is that there's a sound reason he can't brush Eric off, the very same reason why he got on a plane at the first warning sign of any harmful migrations from Brooklyn. He's trying to make his move smooth, so he shall not give explanations and it will seem natural. It will be easy, to wait and stay intertwined with his shiny new girlfriend for a few more days, and then finally drag her away for the summer, to return to his old Palace suite like it is the most obvious step to ever take. He'll enjoy what is left of his adoptive brother until he still can.

Hard to admit, but he has discovered he prefers full households, the familiar noises of well-known company, the playful sniping with Serena and the composed, graceful kindness of Lily, the shy dry humor of Eric, to independence.

But mistakes always have a price, acceptance is always conditional and he is going to pay up for the first truth with the second one.

Out of all the new rituals his new situation with the Van Der Woodsens forced him to integrate into his daily routine, breakfast is what he has learned to appreciate the most.

It's something he lacked growing up; his more remote memories portray his younger self waking up to an already empty, coolly silent house and a rich breakfast table prepared by a discreet nanny who busied herself in the background. Sometimes Chuck thinks he began sleeping around only so he could skip the disturbing purposelessness of it. Those first times, it was uncomfortable to open his eyes and find another naked body nestled beside his, but he could not do otherwise. His house, with its aseptic order and its constant quietness, echoed with reminders of Bart's absence and the questions it evoked.

When his partying and sleeping around grew into an embarrassing habit, and Bart had disdainfully assigned him to suite 1812, Chuck had been barely thirteen and was ecstatic, eager to finally have the chance to not put up with interchangeable strangers the morning after.

His life used to feel pleasant enough only until it could slide between his fingers fast and weightless, but now the spell was somehow over, exposing the crude reality for the shameful mess it truly was.

He can blame Blair, his impending adulthood, his father's death or even his stubbornly black heart for opening up and wandering where it didn't belong, but there is no possible return to the willing blindness of the past.

Chuck knew with a dooming sense of inevitability, the day after his interlude with Jenny Humphrey, that he had asked for an absolution that would never come. He had expressed his shame without expecting it would make a difference. For what he had almost done, _twice_ , what forgiveness could ever be possible?

He hadn't ever apologized, not even to Serena, because words were worthless to undo the power of memories. Had not Bart apologized, in passing, the first time he cancelled on his only heir (heir, not _son_ , never a son, and there were no sorries that could change that simple fact)? Had the words stopped it from becoming a regular occurrence, until they lost meaning and their cause to be ?

But to Jenny, he gave the truth only so he would stop running from it. Even if it would cost all that he had left, at a time he finally figured out what is important –it starts with B and rhymes with éclair- just in time to watch her regressing to Nathaniel's fucking Golden Age.

It's sort of ironic, the way cosmic justice has finally, slowly but relentlessly caught up with him: he has fallen in love with the only girl he has ever considered far above his station, who just happens to be the only girl who can, if she so elects , easily tear him apart… and if that is not enough of a mockery, he has only ever tried to force his hand with the only two blondes meant to legally become _his sisters_.

Chuck allows his gaze to linger on the mirage of demure perfection before him: it doesn't matter how many times or under how many aspects he considers the notion, how often he has screwed her inside the suite she was supposed to share with Nate, he can't make himself accept she belongs to him.

Blair has her mahogany hair caught in a French knot, exposing her delicious nape…that is covered by a high, dark lace collar that almost reaches her chin. Lace conceals her slim arms up to her wrists as well as her chest, where it overlaps with the midnight blue satin that hides her cleavage and caresses her supple curves until her knees. Dark stockings protect her shapely legs from his hungry eyes. Even without a bowtie, his suit matches her dress: his shirt is the same exact shade of blue, contrasting with the pale ice of his jacket and slacks .

He watches her fidgeting with the hem of her purse while she tries stubbornly to pretend she doesn't notice he is committing to memory the flawlessness of her image.

"You are staring at me" she singsongs eventually, breaking their impasse, eyes moving from the window to him, a sudden flush to her cheeks.

 _Beautiful_ – he thinks, and it terrifies him that something this priceless is also the last thing he has to carry from the shady past to the uncertain future.

He doesn't know where he will stand with the Van der Woodsens and Nathaniel is, well, not exactly gone but never again to be the influence he was before, yet the simple fact that she is still here somehow makes up for everything else.

"It's because you look so delectable. I'm busy with mentally unwrapping you. Very slowly. "

He supposes he can't really blame her for sitting straighter and subtly clenching her thighs together as if only his gaze could expose and violate her, but her reaction is amusing all the same.

"I thought we were going along with the general concept of restraining our instincts before your liquids drain?"

"Please, your liquids would drain first. Not only are you just as much of a libidinous beast as I am, but women have a shorter recovery time, and you are never quite reluctant to start your fun before me. "

"Not everything is a competition, Chuck "

"You just sounded as credible as Georgina Sparks did in preaching about weird Christian rituals."

"I'm choosing to not comment on that unspeakable comparison."

"Because you know I'm right. You can't deny me."

"But I can use this purse to knock sense into your head."

"I missed your post-coital random acts of violence."

"You are so lucky this is our stop " she ends, because the limo has stopped and he is so caught in her that he barely registers the rest.

The club actually goes under the banal name of 'Moonshine' and Chuck can already say he won't like it a bit before even stepping past the threshold. Yet, when he offers his arm to Blair and she takes it, he finds out it doesn't matters whether this poor excuse for a date is occurring outside their social habitat. Even if it's unlikely that they will meet any members of their usual clique there, his chest still puffs out in pride as they make their way inside and to the table where Jonathan and Eric are already waiting.

He's more aware of the many eyes that follow them since their solemn entrance than he is of his surroundings; glancing to Blair, he can see that she is basking under all the attention they draw: her cherry tinted lips are pursed in that sort of proud but spontaneous smirk that always comes so easily to her when she's feeling accomplished.

It's just a natural sentiment, Chuck decides, and one worthy of sharing: he remembers well how attractive they looked beside each other in those mirrors at the atelier, their individual elegance perfectly matching each other's good looks, their similar coloring complimenting the contrast between his sharp angles and her soft curves. If singularly they were gorgeous, together they were a striking pair that projected an old Hollywood allure.

The atmosphere of the place is blatantly underground, but it has a finely exclusive flavor that speaks of good liqueurs and money, contenting the snob alive and kicking inside Chuck Bass.

Blair all but clutches his hand as they near the table and Eric's eyes make a strange – but morbidly captivating – widening motion like they will fall out of their sockets. Chuck smirks regardless of the loss of circulation in his fingers- the whole situation is _so_ fun, it amuses him more than he would think possible.

Blair keeps her chin high and her eyes wandering around their surroundings – merely acknowledging their company with a regal nod- while they sit, still refusing to loosen her death grip.

"Just so you know, we're all heading to Butter afterwards," she deliberates haughtily, like her Queen Bee persona is all that can beat his commitment-induced escape instincts into submission.

Caught in some peculiar place between amusement at her antics and a surprising fit of ease, he runs his thumb along the back of her hand, willing her to understand that there's nowhere else he would rather be.


	5. Chapter 5

In retrospect, Chuck knows he should have expected this. They had _five_ freakishly perfect days, filled with the best sex of his entire, experienced life and a relatively tame, playfully adoring Blair Waldorf.

But Blair Waldorf is _not_ docile, not really, no matter how much she likes to pretend otherwise or how many delusions Nathaniel used to have about it. She is a pushy, egotistic, hypocritical, infernal little bitch sent on his case as a particularly sadistic form of karmic retribution.

"I can't believe you embarrassed me like that!"

Once upon a time, he used to find the sight of her face and posture transfigured by ire sexy, but now there's nothing more remote from truth. The way she is speaking to him only reminds him of far too many conversations he has had with Bart, and it creates the same churning feeling in the pit of his stomach. Her disappointment in his behavior is repulsive, angering: he would like nothing better than to shake her hard, maybe even slap her, because what the fuck, she has no right to be fucking _ashamed_ of him.

"You are the one who insisted on making me stay and holding your fucking hand through Hazel's crap! "

"Unlike you, Bass, I like having acquaintances who don't completely despise my company! And you are my _boyfriend_!"

"I must have missed the memo explaining how this detail enables you to decide how or if I can talk back to other people when in public! "

Hushed voices, harsh whispers fill the chilly distance between their bodies while downstairs the party goes on like nothing is happening: suddenly he still feels like her dirty secret.

"You should not need a memo to know you can deflect an insult without becoming crass and crude! All you need is some class! Too bad that even with all your money you can't buy that, can you?"

 _I should strangle her_ , he thinks through the loud thundering of rage in his veins; what has ever given him the impression she was above throwing his weaknesses back in his face? She knows how he feels about his new-money status, not because he ever told her but because she was there to see him struggle to become someone who couldn't be easily brushed off like the UES bigots would have wanted.

Loving him doesn't give the bitch full rights to mold him into a fucking trained peacock, dammit!

"Waldorf soiree or not, I won't stand there to listen to some frigid Stepford wife criticizing my life!"

"Of course not, you don't have enough respect for me to do that! And while we're at it, what did you expect? That Hazel's mother would _compliment_ you for spending most of our high school years as a walking advertisement for intoxicated prostitution? "

"Well, as I've already said, it's a shame her mouth wasn't nearly as scathing last year, it would have spared me -"

"Don't you dare finish! God, that was so humiliating! You are lucky her husband wasn't there, asshole, or I would have had to explain to _my mother_ why _my boyfriend_ started a scene at _her soiree_!"

"I'm sorry,"– he spits, not at all sympathetic to her distress- "I thought you were past your juvenile fixation with painting fairy tales wherever you look! "

Really, at this moment, he hates everything about her. Her beauty, the elegant slenderness of her body as it leans towards his, the bitter curl of her lips, the indignation embedded in her words. Mostly, he hates the fact that she can look so flawless in his eyes even when his brain fucking knows that she is full of imperfections, because the more flawless she is, the more he feels flawed.

"You know, I'm not surprised you're being like this. It must be difficult to even remember the meaning of the words 'embarrassment ' and 'propriety' when you enter a room and discover you have already seen the majority of its occupants naked! "

"Naked, sweaty and panting, if you must know!"

"You are a disgusting pig!"

"That's the problem, isn't it? "

"Yes!"

At once, Blair realizes that it's the first time in long time they are looking at each other like opponents, and not like lovers. It undermines her anger somehow, awakening an uneasy feeling deep down.

"What do you expect, Blair? That my past is all gone? That I _behave_ , wherever someone can see us or listen to us? That's it? Do you want a nice _trophy date_ with my face and dick and money and Nathaniel or Lord-What's–his-face's perfect manners?"

She stomps her feet down furiously, raising her hands in exasperation: "It has _nothing_ to do with that! Stop making this about me! It's about you! Your idiotic inability to keep your mouth shut when you should!"

"Really?" he inches closer to her, invading her personal space, so close that her breath is on his face and his hand is grazing her throat, wrapping slowly around it. she should probably be a bit scared by the assumedly threatening gesture, but she is not. She just feels hot, hot anywhere because that cold, ruthless hardness in his gaze is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time and …

It's a bit startling, to realize she is getting abnormally, inappropriately aroused. It's not the time or the situation for that, and she tries to blink the fire between her thighs away, into the realm of too-senseless-and out-of-place-to-be-consciously-acknowledged-things .

"I don't like being treated with condescenscion, _Blair_ , by you or anyone else. That won't change."

It makes her uneasy, to hear her name uttered from him like a curse. She is no longer sure of how they got to this point so fast, so worked up. She is not sure of why it hurts so badly, when they fought so much worse before they got together with so much less strain. He should understand where she is coming from, and he should _not_ be so disappointed with her, nor should she be able to feel the brunt of his dissatisfaction so deeply. Chuck is not taking back his confessions of love and there are no sharp insults being thrown around… why does she feel so broken?

Fingers caress her throat softly before squeezing ever so slightly, and the restlessness in her heart increases, spreads to that dirty, moist place between her legs.

She could reply with something, but it's impossible, with his eyes and hands on her, pinning her to her bedroom door, his grip on her left wrist so strong and tight that she should fear a sprain if only she cared.

She can't bring herself to, not when his lips are so close, pressed together in a pale, sensual line of displeasure. She reaches for them, caught in an insuppressible longing to brush hers against them and taste them with her tongue, but his palm on her stomach pushes backward, roughly.

"Stay still," Chuck snaps coolly, that unsettling kind of focused distance in his gaze that she hadn't experienced since that time he called her a sweaty mare and pretty much equated her to the filthiest among the whores. His even breath tickles her cheek and she feels an incomprehensible feeling seeping into her, in between crippling fear and guilty desire.

She is startlingly aware that Chuck might say to her the most vicious, irreparable, hurtful thing if she only tried the wrong justification, so she stays quiet and allows him to flatten her back against the door.

Part of her yearns to cajole or to fight back- she has her fair chance to win-but the other side of her is stronger . It's the side of her that is enraptured with his desperate cruelty as much as with his bouts of childlike tenderness , that hungers for the power only _he_ can exercise on her emotions.

Chuck's head dips down, so he can hesitate two tormenting seconds before freeing her throat, only to have his closed mouth apply a burning, insistent pressure on her flushed skin. She whimpers in response because underneath his lips her flesh is aflame and Blair can feel his smirk on her before his teeth drag along the curve of her neck, branding and bruising.

Gently, her hands are guided to lay open against the door, at her sides.

"Eyes open, Waldorf. Hold yourself up.," he whispers inside her ear, and it's like the sound can reach into her bones, seductive and severe, hot and cold. The verbal caress lifts her eyelids up effortlessly whereas before they were drifting shut.

She straightens, and It occurs to her that it's the first time that being c _ommanded_ doesn't appall her.

It terrifies her, that she of all people would crave the knowledge that Chuck Bass can force control out of her grasp completely and irrevocably.

Yet she can't stop staring back into that cutting, bottomless darkness of his eyes: it makes her feel small and exposed, like it might swallow her. Before she can realize it, her knees are going weak and for a helpless moment she is sliding down the hard wood surface; only when the vice around her wrists tightens even more, a spike of pain pulls her throughout her haze and she notices she is being pulled up.

A hand kneads her breast through her dress, its touch rough but purposeful, not slow nor impatient , but right enough to be more a delight than a torment.

Her thighs spread apart against the pressure of a possessive touch that lingers upon each of them in turn.

His palm cups her sex brazenly, brusquely, and all the tension in Blair's body releases itself in a shuddering, shame-filled sigh. How is she supposed to keep her ground if she can't hide from him what he does to her so easily?

"How is that?"- he whispers- "tell me why it seems so _apparent_ to me that you don't want me to be a gentleman now?"

His thumb probes her through her soaked underwear, punishes her clit with a forceful squeeze when he realizes she won't talk back to him.

"Is that how you would like it, B? Proper and nice out in the open, real behind closed doors? "

"N-no."

"Then how is it?"

"I"- when did her tongue grow so huge in her mouth? –"I'm not asking you to change. "

"But?"

She doesn't understand why her knees are wobbling, if it's the velvety coolness of his tone or the coarseness of his fingers rubbing her lace-covered pussy that is keeping her trembling and uncertain.

"I hate you sometimes," she murmurs , turning her head to the side and moaning when his tongue revisits that sensitive spot behind her ear. It seems like the only thing to say at the time, but once it's out she notices it's not altogether right.

"The feeling is entirely mutual," he dishes back and it hurts and it doesn't hurt and it gets everything so much hotter. He's still touching _there_ , not quite the way she needs but pinching and stroking and scratching: her skin is melting like butter in response and she can't stand the steaming heat eating her up from the inside.

"I would like to get off now," Blair hears herself stating and she's surprised that phrase came out so matter-of-fact and polite. It's pretty much the same tone she would use while asking Dorota to make a cup of tea after a tiring school day.

Chuck has the gall to smirk in her face, an arrogant, nasty twist to his perfect lips that forces her to crave to be devoured inch by inch.

"I can smell it," he drawls , the detached, nearly lazy sound of his words sliding across her taut form to leave wicked promises of secret delights in its wake.

It's like all air has left her at once and she's reduced to nothing but the fierce throbbing in the lower half of her body, the blind desire for this pitiless man to just take all of her and leave her with nothing, nothing but _him_ and the pleasure and the pain he's able to evoke.

" _Chuck_ , _"_ she gasps, a guttural noise of carnal need that sounds more animal than human to her ears. Darkness consumes her senses as her La Perlas slip along her legs to pool on the floor: she's not quite being touched as much she _needs_ and even that elusive caress of air on her slick folds, the contact of her panties on her stockings as they cascade down, is too much .

"I'm not hearing the magic words here, " he taunts, sinister and foreboding but oh so intriguing.

" _I love you._ "

Blair all but squeaks and strangely, she might not have ever meant it more than in this shadowed room between anger and need, lust and sorrow. It shouldn't surprise her: their relationship was always more of a chiaroscuro than a banal watercolor.

Chuck chuckles unkindly, his nose stroking the curve of her jaw as his breath fans over sensitive skin and one of his hands trails up to get reacquainted with the texture of her upper thigh. "That's always nice to hear, but still not what I meant, lover. "

"What, then?"

Out of her lips the words are slurred, clumsy. Her arousal is a sticky fog that asphyxiates her rational self. The teasing pinch to her bottom nearly distracts her from his next line. "Tell me you're sorry."

He says it so seriously, so nonplussed that she can't avoid the bout of tittering, breathless laughter that escapes her. "Dream on."

"Should I?"

It's just disloyal of him, to talk mean and squeeze her butt _just like that_. He knows she can't think straight when he acts all almighty and jerk-like. She always wants to either rip him apart or fuck his brains out, often at the same time, and it really doesn't make it any easier to keep her mind straight and organized.

" _Chuck!"_

Her frustration is utterly justified, with the strap of her dress down and his head diving down purposefully, his lips brushing her nipple and pulling away as if to put off their task again and again before finally giving in, suckling too gently to truly satisfy her.

And his hands, clutching her hips and supporting her against the door, keeping her spread open and in place, but uselessly so since he's not taking advantage of _anything_. Stupid, sadistic, sex-on-legs Basstard.

She _so_ needs him inside, dammit!

Blair moans loudly while his tongue wets the valley between her breasts, roaming up to lap an indolent trail to her collarbone. When he kisses her, she opens her mouth to receive him even before his lips can graze hers. He kisses her like she belongs to him, filling her since the first taste, reining in her impatience to savor her better, molding her body against his so intimately that they might as well being having sex already...

If he was hard, which, she realizes startlingly, he is _not_.

Although the evidence –or the lack of it- is pretty much unmistakable, Blair convinces herself that her inebriated senses have to be fooling her, because if it was true, it would be completely unprecedented and senseless. It's downright impossible that _Chuck Bass_ is not affected by having his girlfriend (Her!) pressed all over him and ready for the taking, so her mind refuses to acknowledge the idle fact until he pulls back, carefully but firmly disentangling himself from her now eager embrace.

His palms curl around her buttcheeks, taking a solid, possessive hold of her flesh and his expression is a bizarre, beautiful blend of bland bitterness and malicious determination . "If you won't tell me, you'll show me, at the very least. You used to like that a lot, didn't you?"

By the way he 's touching her, there's no mistaking his meaning, even if she wanted to, which, surprisingly enough, she doesn't think she does. Actually, the idea has a certain…appeal, admit it or not.

He doesn't have the right to boss her around like a vile, chauvinistic tyrant and she still believes she was right in saying the things she said but none of this presently makes a difference.

In fact, Blair finds she _wants_ to please him, desperately so. She craves wiping that cocky indifference from his visage till he'll ache to take her as much she herself aches to be taken, till she'll recognize the hungry desire in his tone and his gaze. Mostly, she wants Chuck to just stop being so cross with her and worship her again like he used to before their stupid spat.

"Fine," she pouts, her voice faint and placating, almost smothered by the mouth that nips hers in approval.

"Good girl."

A casual slap on her side and his body warmth and weight are gone as he swaggers off and away from her, without so much as a backward glance. He comes to sit on her bed like a king on his throne, waiting for her, his legs slightly parted. He leans back and she wants to frown over his stubborn lack of physical response to her surrender. _Nothing_ turns Chuck Bass on more than having the upper hand, and it's offensive that he is holding back from her s .

 _What a manipulative jerk._ – she muses fondly while she steps out of the panties tangled around her ankles, turns the key inside the lock and sways toward her man as dignifiedly as someone who knows what is in store for her would do.

Blair gets on her knees in front of him, her best smoldering society smile in place because she knows it irritates him but it also makes him hungry to replace it with something else, and she is awarded for her effort when his gaze narrows on her lips.

"Bend over for me, sweetheart," he coos and she shivers, both at his endearment of choice and the severe command preceding it.

She complies, playing it disciplined and without fretting, shivers some more as fingertips tap on the small of her back, accompanying her movement.

Her hands fall forward, resting on the cool floor to support her new position. Chuck smoothes her dress over her rear, tracing the contours of her firm globes at his ease through the cloth. He dares a lingering glance down to her profile while he riles the silk up over her bottom, baring the perfection of her milky curves.

He has always thought hat Blair has the most flawless proportions he has ever seen on a female body. Full breasts that fit well in his hands, not prepubescent-flat nor pin-up large. That tight little ass so faultlessly shaped, a ripe and pale peach very soft and pliant underneath his exploring touch.

He loves her skin, fair and unblemished as if kissed by moonlight, so easily tainted, smooth and inviting to caress, taste, _mark_.

Chuck will never consider himself a romantic, but there are fine rarities that merit poetry and attention: Blair Waldorf just happens to be among those, and her body is a work of art. He might spend hours like this, with her reclined over his knees, just studying her scantly-clad form as she allows him to rediscover her.

He runs a hand up and down her back, cups more gently than he means to one of her cheeks, glaring resentfully at her exposed nape (sometimes he swears she's constantly pinned her hair up like this since they hooked up just to make sure that his mind will stay in the gutter) and revels in the strangled noise that squirms out of her ribcage when he squeezes her supple flesh .

The first slap is unexpectedly light , and the only sound it inspires is a wistful sigh. The second one makes up for that, being calibrated to provoke a real reaction out of her. She holds back all the sound this time, but her nape bows upward, and he can get a glimpse of her lips locked against each other like she was biting on them. He draws his hand back and goes for the next hit, the loud whack echoing in the otherwise silent room along with the hitch in her breath. Her whole body jerks forward and his groin twitches in response. It takes a considerable exercise of will to concentrate on the task ahead, set every smack stronger and louder than the one preceding it, while her body undulates back and forth over his knees, while her hisses become weak whines and then tiny moans. Lust makes his blood thick and thunderous in his ears, and he can feel himself hardening against her stomach. In a way, he is as bare as she is, as powerless to his desire as she appears to be to hers, but at the same time he has never felt less vulnerable or more exhilarated.

The raw rush of power that runs into his veins with each blow is tantalizing, addictive. He is a slave to it (to her) more than he will ever allow himself to recognize.

At one point, he has to stop because his palm burns and this is when he can't avoid becoming entranced by his handiwork. He stares at her buttocks, which have a lovely, heated red flush, and his fingers reach out in fascination, his breath hard as he grazes the warm flesh. She rocks herself forward and backward to meet his hips that have now begun grinding against her, seemingly of their own volition.

"Chuck! " she sobs, and he is helpless to say anything because he's choking, and it's too startling to hear the echo of his feelings in her needful cry. He knows only too well what she is feeling: he wants her so badly that he might have wept if he wasn't already guaranteed to have her.

"Chuck, I can't wait anymore."

He lets two of his fingers slide down her ass crack to her slit, wet and quivering for him. He doesn't dare to take her like this, regardless of her appreciative groan: it's painful enough as it is, he doubts he could take feeling her spasm around anything that isn't his dick.

He takes two ever so deep, rejuvenating breaths, then he pulls his teasing fingers away and doesn't bother to suppress the fit of hysterical laughter at her unladylike growl of protest.

"You can rise now," he deliberates evenly, because Chuck Bass is always in control except when he isn't, and even then he likes to pretend otherwise.

Everything happens in a rush: he is looking into her wide, liquid-chocolate eyes and her lips assault his like her life depends on it, her hands open on his leg to brace herself, and he's kissing her back furiously before he notices what he's doing.

When he recovers, he cups her jaw and draws back, pushing her away firmly but not roughly because she is so fucking beautiful like that, panting and excited, expression and usually overactive mind clouded with lust for him. For a moment, he is almost struck speechless by the picture she provides, but he still finds it in himself to instruct, "Sit on my lap," with a passable imitation of neutrality.

It's perhaps a bit strange that Blair's only response is to simply hike up her skirt and move to straddle him. Shaking his head to dissipate the fog that is impairing his thought processes, he stops her, silently guiding her to turn around and sit on him with her face turned the other way, like a queen on her throne.

He nuzzles his cheek against her nape and she arches back, toward him, moaning with utter abandon. He unbuckles his belt and frees his aching erection with one hand, the other groping her breasts and pinching her nipples. Blair seems downright enthusiastic to leave all the work to him, mewling and melting at pretty much anything he does, her arms limp by her sides. Just for today, he's the puppet master and she is his most prized puppet, and it feels equally liberating for both of them.

His grip on her waist drives her down on his cock, and Blair lets him move her over him as he pleases, bouncing and groaning in his lap without any concern for the party continuing downstairs or what her mother could think if she noticed their absence .

This feels new and wonderful: she never allowed him to control her to this extent before and she couldn't have imagined she would find it so incredibly pleasurable.

She is comfortable with having Chuck getting off on rising and lowering her on his cock to his satisfaction, his thrusts deep and long, knowing she is giving him this because she _needs_ to feel him take his fill of her.

This is not the same pleasure she experienced with the others this past year. It's not the same as getting fucked by Jack or Carter, or even by Nate, with whom she tried to convince herself it was right because his feelings were pure and genuine: she is not getting her rocks off on being used for another's release. She is soundly certain that when it'll be over she won't find herself pushing a feeling of violation to the edges of her consciousness just because it doesn't fit with the script she crafted.

 _This_ is not about her self-destruction, nor about not deserving or not being good enough to realize her wishes.

 _This_ is golden.

Chuck nibbles on her neck and whispers dirty sweet nothings on her skin, savors her flesh with biting kisses, and she feels unlike herself. Whole. Overwhelmingly safe, like he'll take care of her and will never let go.

Her mind is in tatters but she _wants_ …so strongly, blindly, recklessly.

And if suddenly she decides to take action and squeeze him tighter, to force him to cum before she does, it's because she knows that control and power are shady words when it comes to the two of them.

His arms envelope her tightly, crossing around her sweaty stomach, and when he slumps onto her shoulders, her name on his lips as he shivers and reaches completion, she knows she's his anchor and that's all she needs to come apart at the seams.

He'll hold her on her bed afterwards, his body spooning hers, and she'll giggle because even if the orgasmic haze has cleared, she still doesn't feel dirty or used or like a weak-willed, clingy little fool. She just feels loved.


	6. Chapter 6

Chuck dreams often of dying things, of standing in a garden among rotting plants especially, as twilight casts a sanguine shadow over his surroundings and there's no sound but an accusing silence.

In his dreams, he is just _there_ , in his spot, still and careless while everything around him rots. Sometimes he smiles too, like the slow decay he's witnessing amuses him, like he won't be gasping for air when he wakes up, an invisible weight sitting on his chest.

This night, a night of his first summer as Blair Waldorf's boyfriend, is not so different: Chuck is a child, playing with a ball in his private Garden of Decay, but the news is that there's another kid playing with him. His blonde hair shines like gold in the twilight, and his blue eyes are wide and trusting.

And then everything changes, except the Garden: kids become quasi-adults and the ball Chuck has just thrown into the air fades into nothingness. His eyes seek Nate's gaze to share the silent wonder, but Nate is wearing a silver suit, like that night at Blair's cotillion, and his lips are doing a weird, repulsive quirk up–the pantomime of a sleazy smirk- as he winks.

Chuck awakes to find his legs tangled with another's, warm flesh pressed against his back. He stays motionless for a while, keeping his breathing regular and his restless thoughts at bay, until he remembers and makes sense of everything.

Even while he gently moves away from his sleeping beauty, his eyes trace the outline of her body in the darkness. He sits up and shakes his head at himself, banishing the images of his nightmare from his mind.

He stares ahead and wills himself not to move toward the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He doesn't need it. Everything is fine. Blair is right there and she is all that he's wanted for the longest time.

Even if…in certain moments when he looks at her, it's difficult to believe he can trust her. The memory of how easily she dismissed him that night she gave him his first heartbreak is haunting, more than any betrayal that came later. Because it was his first, because that time he had let her in without even understanding what he was doing, because he had _not_ been scared _then,_ of imagining her at his side for more than a fortnight or a week. And she had figuratively gutted him and picked someone else.

The pain he had experienced on those stairs, watching her return another embrace like what they shared meant nothing, like _he_ meant nothing to her, had been terrifying.

Especially because he had never realized before that he could be hurt that way. It was one thing, to be rejected by Bart, who was biased, who didn't ever bother to really know him…but by Blair, whom he had admired, wanted, plotted for… it had been an entirely different, unknown level of aggravation.

To notice that for him she represented something unique, whereas she only saw him as a temporary amusement - a replacement- had made him feel lower than ever. It had robbed him of that last sliver of innocence he wasn't even aware he had.

And now, she _loves_ him and everything is supposed to be different, but he'll never let her know how much she can destroy him. It would be so much worse today than it was then.

Nate…is not a threat anymore; all of Chuck's jealousy can't deny it, yet the bitter aftertaste of that dream won't leave him alone.

Nate hasn't called since graduation and Chuck doesn't know how he feels about it. In theory, he might take the first step and mock whatever adventure Punky Brewster dragged the blonde into, but the will is lacking.

Chuck thinks he misses Nate, but not this Nate who smirks instead of smiling, who hides in Brooklyn and looks down on his oldest friends to feel better about himself.

He misses the Nate who trusted him, the Nate who could hurt Blair without noticing but would _neve_ r intentionally let down Chuck.

That Nate was all that Chuck Bass didn't want to and couldn't be, and it made him feel so accomplished to look after him.

This Nate is an ungrateful idiot who brags about taking Blair's supposed virginity like she is any street whore, disappears when Bart dies and takes his only son's sanity with him, and acts _condescending_ to anyone's face.

Chuck hates Nate a bit for becoming yet another thing he has had in his grasp and somehow soiled. And then he thinks of Elle, of the way her beauty and sexuality were so much blunter than Blair's, of how desperately he needed her in a time of his life when too many doors were closing. It had felt good, to believe that he could save her, that he could become someone's savior… to believe that, for once, he could love one who was beneath him, not someone who was constantly above and out of his reach.

It would be safer, to love someone like Elle or, maybe, Georgina Sparks. He would never have to wonder whether he was good enough.

But love isn't a choice, apparently, and Blair is, for all intents and purposes, his one and only. The only one who can haunt him anywhere he hides on this earth, the only person he can genuinely miss (including his father, probably), the only one he can see clearly from behind closed eyelids.

He has stopped fighting it; is it a good thing, really?

Deep down, Chuck knows he didn't really ruin his best friend. Nate has _always_ had this strange, childlike cruelty about him, totally involuntary but nonetheless effective: it was just easier to ignore when it was directed toward other targets.

And Elle has not intruded among his thoughts since long before high school ended.

It scares Chuck, this newly discovered tendency to idealize and idolize to recreate purity where there's none.

 _'I care about three things, Nathaniel: money, the pleasures money brings me, and you.'_  
It feels like entire lifetimes went him by since he said that line and believed it too, since the time he needed _Nathaniel_ to be the one spot of simplified naiveté within an existence otherwise dark and twisted.

Sometimes he misses the simplicity of the past: the necessity to keep Nate immaculate and perfect so they could live off each other in that bizarrely parasitic bond so one of them could be nice and clean by living through the other's dangerous, degenerate exploits while staying safe and untouched, so a malicious orphan could experience through his most innocuous counterpart the dubious wonders of familiar affections and steady, gorgeous, pristine girlfriends.

In a way, it was a beautiful friendship, but it wasn't a surprise it was dying so, now that Nate is relatively free to embrace his self-indulgence and that Chuck has won and lost a family of his own and discovered a new depth of feeling.

What do they have left to share, except twin impulses to simultaneously struggle against and hold on each other?

Chuck tries not to contemplate the question too closely; some would call it avoidance, it's all self-preservation to him.

He watches Blair stirring, reaching for him blindly with her thin arms and her small wandering hands.

"Chuck?" she grumbles sleepily, her head bumping into his thigh, and he can't avoid running a hand through her tangled locks, the touch loving despite his morose mood.

It seems to reassure her, as her eyelids flutter closed against his skin.

If there's someone who has proved an ability to be loyal and _real_ to Chuck Bass, that's Miss-Know-It-All-Waldorf.

The truest intimacy he has ever known is just looking at her visage and recognizing the wistful expression that says 'I need to be kissed _now_ ' from the one that signals the subtlest beginnings of arousal.

He never made her up to be something or someone she is not, never expected her to fill the gaping holes in his life.

Yet while he plays with her hair and remembers the brave, helpless longing in her eyes when she held his face between her palms and swore she would never be weak again – _I love you, so much it consumes me_ \- he learns that the words still placate him and their memory fills him with a sort of quiet warmth.

After he snuggles up with her, they will lull him to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

It happens like this: Chuck takes her out for dinner, and Blair –sometime in between their reminiscing about the most pleasant aspects of their last year of high school and hypothesizing about some of their classmates' possible futures- admits she might feel like she missed out on something while she was too busy sticking religiously to her 'good girl plans' and babysitting Serena. In fact, she's almost positive she never did anything truly foolish until Serena left for Vermont. Chuck teases for the rest of the night that she made up more than enough for those years of relative inaction, but how he gets from that to conning her into trying out his best pot in his limo is a complete mystery.

The next morning, she regrets that misstep achingly. More than that, she literally panics when her brain trips in the memory of what exactly she was blubbering in his ear while she was feeling exhilarated out of her mind.

_I'll tell you a secret, sometimes I think it would be great, if only I could be completely, utterly out of control. For you. I imagine that, sometimes. Being at your mercy. You fucking me breathless while I can't move._

_Really, princess? Tell me more about it._

Damn her. Of course, she then went all motor-mouth on him and spilled _every_ detail of her sick fantasy and, as if that wasn't humiliating enough, she had followed it by waxing poetic about how much she loved going down on him before actually doing so.

"Can we _please_ forget last night ever existed?" She whines, not quite working up the backbone to look straight into his eyes, and hating herself a bit for that. She knows he will tease her to death for this, but she has a sound list of details proving how much she wasn't herself, and thus couldn't be held accountable for anything she did.

Chuck shrugs casually, feigning disinterest, but then says "Do you know me at all?"- with a stupid smirk flourishing on those treacherous lips- "I've already taken out my toy box. "

"Excuse me?!"

If humanly possible, her indignation only makes her degenerate of a boyfriend giddier.

"I thought it could be helpful, if you don't mind me adding few surprise innovations to your secret fantasy."

"I do _n't_ fantasize about things like that. Nor have I _ever_! I don't know why I implied differently, okay?! I was _high._ "

Probably, her defensive tone is giving her away, and the heat she can feel creeping up her neck to her cheeks will do nothing to help her point, but what can she do?

"Are you sure? Because I seem to recall a copious abundance of details."

"I was _high,_ " she stresses it again: it's the only detail favoring her theory, really.

Chuck huffs, shaking in his head in disapproval. "Now Blair, I know this is only the prude in you talking. Shut her up and give my girlfriend back to me, please?"

"Chuck!"

"Blair?"

"This has nothing to do with any prudish tendencies I might or might not have, is that clear?"

"So if we agreed on considering this as _my_ idea, you won't mind ? "

"…"

* * *

Exchanging denial for sincerity, Blair can't avoid being the smallest bit touched that Chuck took so much care to bring to life the picture her guilty imagination painted for him.

She is sprawled out on the large bed, her bare back caressed by black satin sheets, the bedroom lit only by black candles - her wrists are bound to the bedpost by his St. Jude neckties, the same ones tying her ankles to the opposite poles of the bed. Her thighs are spread wide, her legs are stretched taut and she is trembling because the difference between reality and fantasy is that she is truly powerless here: he could do anything to her and she would be physically unable to stop him. It's not the reason she is terrified, anyway. It's all the years she spent trying to protect herself from other people that make her current disposition almost inacceptable. With anyone else, she suspects this would feel tantamount to rape, but with Chuck, although every instinct of hers rebels to it, there's a timorous, hesitant curiosity to see what lies behind the fear.

"I'm going take care of you," he murmurs, his voice silky as he kisses her forehead and his palm cups her jaw.

It should sound creepy, her most rational self argues, but, oddly, she believes him.

His expression has something solemn as his eyes rake over her body, slowly, with a religious and relentless intensity. She is completely naked and he is only wearing that purple shirt of his, but he is as serious she has ever seen him.

Blair is grateful for that; it reminds to her that this is more than a game for both of them. For once, it's not one of their power plays, but rather a testing of their newly traced boundaries: he treasures her trust every bit she treasures the fact she can trust him to give her _this_.

His mouth slides along the curve of her throat, worshipping each inch of her skin with fervent, drawn-out kisses, his hands fondling the soft flesh of her breasts.

Blair is painfully tense underneath his touch, and she has to bite her lip to not ask him to stop. Part of her wants, _needs_ to flee from this moment – it may not be demeaning, but it still stands against all that she has built herself to be- while another part resents herself fiercely for not being able to just relax and enjoy it already.

Chuck has seen her naked before –often- but suddenly she can't bear her inability to hide herself from his keen gaze.

Knuckles brush against her nipples – they are already taut and hard, uncaring about her distress-first one and then the other, then all over again and she needs to close her eyelids against her upcoming tears.

"When you tell me to stop, it stops. " Chuck's gravelly, concerned tone comforts her.

"Go ahead." She insists, nodding jerkily.

He obeys her, his head bending to lick her tears off her cheeks, almost tenderly, and then he is down on her breasts again, his warm tongue stroking their hardened peaks gently, traveling from one to another until his lips close around a nipple finally and cruel fingers tease its twin.

The gentle suckling pressure on her skin becomes a harsh tugging, a scraping of teeth on her slick flesh, and flames dance in her belly as her discomfort grows into something more complex.

She cries out at that twisted form of pain that peaks into pleasure, and she wonders how he knows her body so well to guess it would respond better to an undeserved mistreatment than to reassuring coddling right now.

But her rising satisfaction falls to nothing as he rises above her, his body crawling up hers without hurry until they are eye to eye.

They don't kiss but he reaches for the open box on the ebony bedside table and her breath catches. His hands glide again over her rigid shoulders and her flushed tits, dragging with them their prize over her skin.

Metal clamps enclose around her nipples in the same instant – the chain connecting them dangling across her abdomen feels so cool on her warm, sticky skin- and a whimper is wrenched from the darkest depth of her. Her limbs twitch, fight against the restraints but her sex is pulsing, humming with heat of blossoming lust.

His palms skim over ribcage, her sweaty stomach, her open thighs. She arches up to the touch but obtains nothing. Chuck stills her, firmly pinning her hips to the mattress.

"You are so perfect. Every single part of you is: your tits, your arms, your back, your legs, your ass" –and he punctuates that particular affirmation by cupping her buttocks and squeezing them roughly- "even that glistening cunt. If I could, I would taste it all day long. s

"You could be tasting me right now" she purrs, because although she hates that he knows her obsessions well enough to use them to force her to melt underneath his weight, she can feel the fire between them calling, commanding to be fed.

"Not yet," he drawls, caressing her shivering thighs soothingly with one hand while pulling at the chain with the other.

The electricity that runs through her nerves is destructive, overwhelming. It feels like there's a monster inside her and it is clawing at her insides in retaliation to its cage being rattled. A lovely torment she might love or loathe but she craves anyway.

Chuck touches her leisurely, like she is Andromeda in chains: something pure and priceless , worthy of memorizing and claiming. Above her, he looks magnificent, primal, merely human and she remembers it wasn't so long ago he had disappeared from her bed in the night, like a grief-projected wraith, leaving her to worry about where he was , fantasizing about his smell and his hands, summoning in her mind this twisted mirage of submission to punish herself.

It doesn't feel much like punishment now that they are both here, and she meets the startling realization that the only person she is submitting to is herself.

Blair moans as his erect dick, leaking with pre-cum, trails over her tummy while he moves on her. She can feel his half-clothed body's warmth on her skin, although their upper halves are not quite touching, and it's an intimate, unique sensation that makes her heart heavy with a passion that is neither lust nor love, but a blend stronger than both.

"Please," she whimpers. _Take me, break me, pump me full with you until we can dissolve into each other-_ is what she is truly begging for, but she can't say it and perhaps he knows it. Perhaps he feels the same, since his eyes snap to hers.

"Soon," he promises.

A glass in his right hand tilts, ice cubes twinkling within, and cool whiskey glides down the valley between her breasts, sliding down their undersides .

She shivers: an idle word like 'pleasure' could never fully describe the mysterious, elusive ecstasy that spreads in her blood, her soul, that madly-beating thing commonly called her heart whilst Chuck laps the liquid off her, his hands clutching at her stretched arms and at the same time pulling at the chain that torments her nipples so sweetly, his cock pulsing against her side.

Her loins burn, her breasts ache and she gives herself over to the overwhelming feeling. The shame and the self-loathing are gone now, washed away by this sweet torment coiling tight and deep inside her.

The release of all inhibition is to her so alike to an orgasm of the brain that Blair can't question the rush of rising exhilaration. She wants to laugh breathlessly, to stay pinned underneath him here forever, with this overpowering pleasure cleansing her from the inside out.

"C'mon, Charles. Isn't it time? Ride me hard and put me away wet. I know you can. "

Her intonation surprises her at first: it has nothing girly or tentative. It's a provocation wrapped in honeyed sultriness, wanton and seductive, and it could only belong to a woman.

His breath hitches at the challenge and his fingernails slowly scrape their path along her sides, to reach her waist, and then he's grinning mischievously, rising her hips off the bed so he can knead her ass in his palms.

She hums in contentment as he does so, licking her dry lips.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?"

"You know I would. Immensely. So come inside and give me my fix."

It's him shivering now. A prisoner, she is not. "Such dirty words from such pretty lips"

His thumb rubs her closed lips and her tongue darts out to taste the salty texture of his skin: she's so starved for contact that she will take anything she can get.

"I can do worse. Like last night. Would _you_ like this, _Charles_? Would it please you to hear how I miss it, the feeling of you slumping on top of me while you release it all in my pussy? Could you take it? Or would it be too much for you, playboy? Would you waste it on my thighs while I talk dirty to you? "

She drinks in the sight of him as he blinks at her and gobbles down air, his throat working in a low, purring sound.

Blair doesn't look away, not even when he reaches to free her nipples and throws his toy backwards, sending it to hit the floor with a loud clang.

His fingers lovingly soothe her abused, tightened tips with morbid, lingering caresses: it's heaven and sin, victory and defeat all in once.

She has never been more helpless. But nor has she ever felt more powerful. It is addictive.

"I might."

He sighs, almost longingly, angling his stiff cock toward her slick entrance. Blair twists in his grip, not because she wants to delay it but for the very opposite reason. She wants it so much she can't bear to stay still and waiting.

"Patience," Chuck admonishes smugly, and she would answer _eloquently_ to that if the head of his dick wasn't breaching her entrance and staying there, just an inch or so inside her aching wetness

"You always feel so good. Better than anyone and anything." He groans, sending a new wave of lust through her weak, willing body.

"Then stop babbling and fuck me good and proper," she exhales back, her voice strained and her sore limbs shaking, sticky and glistening with sweat.

"Tell me how you want it, baby." Chuck growls, propping her lower body higher. She arches up to help him, to meet his hard, struggling thrust.

"Just like that. Like this is just _so_ right. Perfect."

It really is. Despite her lack of ability to better accommodate him, he slides easily into her wet recesses, advancing too little and retreating too soon at first, stubbornly . Delicious torture.

He proves beyond all doubt that frustrated need can be a drug, too.

And then he is just hitting her deep in one long, hard stroke, the way she longed for from beginning . It hurts a little, but it feels right, and it only increases the lust.

"Bas-bastard."

"Bitch."

Everything collapses, melts, dies and comes to life in a timeless rush of pleasure, pain, love, bliss.

They sink into each other until the fall ends and they are left on the calm, peaceful bottom that always follows up their most intense orgasmic experiences.

Blair brings her dark-haired lover back from his daze with a long, satisfied sigh that shudders through her form, so intimately entwined with his.

Kissing her neck, he disentangles from her welcoming depths with a sense of regretful necessity. He feels silly, being so reluctant to leave her warmth, when he might be crushing her with his weight.

Chuck unties her hands and her ankles, smoothing over the white marks his offending neckties left on her, almost tempted to kiss them away. He stomps down impulse: no reason to be corny _after_ the sex, he decides.

But he does not resist when Blair opens her arms to him again, enveloping him in a bear hug before guiding him down, to lay with her.

He appreciates the feeling of her breasts pressing on his back, his fingers interlaced with hers.


	8. Chapter 8

Blair Waldorf has a new secret, one she swore to herself to _never_ –under no circumstance whatsoever- reveal to _anyone_.

Sometimes –more often than she'll ever admit to her mirrored reflection in the morning- when Chuck is sharing her bed, she pretends to fall asleep and waits, waits until his breath slows and she can open her eyes to find his features slackened by sleep.

She wonders about the odd imbalance among those features and how the apparent disharmony only makes his visage appealing in a way perfect visages never are.

His sharp cheekbones, his important, classical nose, his nearly feminine lips and his thick eyelashes always seem to war with each other, yet no close inspection of hers will reveal the trick that allows them to create such a mesmerizing ensemble.

She spies on him with a thief's guilty conscience and a flush of mischievous delight to her cheeks, amazed that such a unique allure could in no way be recreated by a more conventional blending of more aesthetically pleasing details.

In all his small imperfections, Chuck is the very essence of that elusive beauty, the one that can't be contained, clearly defined or even fully understood.

And he's all hers- she'll feel foolish every time she thinks about it- and this is such a mystery that she can't avoid the staring, even if it's a foolish, stalker-ish thing and she hates that she's reduced to it.

She never, ever felt this before: it's terrifying, the rush of tenderness she'll experience watching him, this overwhelming need to keep him close and whole.

Even in love, Blair Waldorf has always been a selfish creature, but not in those frightening moments in which she accepts that now, he's hers, and all she wants is to give him _everything_ , to leave him wanting _nothing_.

Shortly after, she usually realizes that her everything has never been enough to keep any man in her life satisfied: it's then that the altruism ends and she experience a shameful, almost rapacious sort of satisfaction in remembering that she's all Chuck truly has, because Eric is fragile, Serena is mostly too absorbed by her dramas to fix anyone else's ones, and Nate is an unreliable _child_.

The relief never lasts long, because it still hurts too badly to remember Chuck's haunted expression as he spiraled down in his grief for his cold father.

All the fantasies she had built in her head about being with him last year…they didn't live up to the reality of him. She never imagined she would feel so amazingly full of different, intense feelings for another person, but Chuck entrances her, and it makes no difference that she has known him since forever. She longs to explore every dark crevice of his mind, wants him around constantly, craves with worrisome frequency the sensation of his skin under her fingertips and the feeling of his flesh pulsating inside her while he whispers dirty words of appreciation in her ear.

Chuck is not her mother, weighing her down with standards and cleverly worded insults, asking her to be perfect because Eleanor Waldorf deserves no less in a daughter.

He's nothing like her father, who expects her to be a goody-goody, unconditionally devoted princess, untouched by any malice, while he is supposed to be free to leave her time after time (he could have stayed and Blair will never forgive herself for being the coward who doesn't throw it in his face; she doesn't want to force him to own up to it because then they both would know he has chosen the easy way out, that his fresh beginning mattered more than his daughter), of judging her, of taking Handsome and his respect for her away until she proves herself worthy once more .

Chuck takes her for whom she truly is, and for the first time she is not afraid to face the girl she sees inside the mirror of his dark eyes.

Perfection, Blair reasons in the end- it's nothing but another form of conformism and Chuck Bass has always been anything _but_ ordinary. Loving him elevated her life beyond the stereotype it was meant to fill out, somehow called her to be all she could become. By his side, she feels as extraordinary as he is in her eyes; even the torment he put her through _before_ was something tragically beautiful in a way, a devastation so complete, so utterly wrecking that it left no part of her intact. It made her a tragic heroine, a whore, a marvelous actress and every time it was too much, too intense, too _complicated_.

What she fears the most now, as she watches him sleeping, is that he wil someday wake up next to her and see that she is only extraordinary because it's her visceral passion for him that shapes her so. She is only complete because he fills her empty spaces, soothes her uncertainties, inflates her with the flattery of his constant desire.

Some days, she is almost certain the feeling is mutual, that he was reduced to a stereotype too, before that night in his limo. Those are the days she is certain he'll never leave her, that he'll make up for everyone else that hasn't seen anything special in her, that he will treasure _her_ – faults and all- forever.

Then there are days when she will look at her reflection in the mirror and get scared, nearly certain that he will notice she is plain and boring and not good enough to keep him interested in a conventional, official relationship, that she will someday be left alone with the awareness that she will never stop craving him because the craving is already a too deep, too large part of her new self.

So, in these secret nighttime hours, she watches over him and lets the rapture of her vigil seep into her bones, tries to imagine what he's dreaming of, what he has seen and felt during the day that's just gone by, what it meant , for today, to be Chuck Bass.

She is not altogether sure this is a healthy activity per se, but it hardly matters. She likes this guessing game too much to stop playing.

Blair feels him moving, nearly stirring but not quite. Chuck is a light sleeper, easily roused and probably used enough to sharing his bed with others to be trained to recognize whether his company is moving or not.

She knows he hates being touched when he's about to fall asleep- or when he's already asleep, it will depend on her level of neediness- but she still runs her fingers through his soft, tousled hair with a smile: if he must wake up, he is going to wake up to her terms, without a chance of figuring out her new hobby. The Basshole keeps her on her toes enough as it is.

" _Blair_ "-he scowls, after a valiant attempt to ignore her- "What the fuck are you doing?"

" _Chuck_ " _-_ she whines, false sweetness embedded in her tone- "open your eyes"

"No," he literally growls, clenching his eyelids in response, making her smile because he is such a little boy in these random moments, and she knows the perfect way to shock him out of it.

"But I'm so _horny._ "

His eyes snap open, predictably, and he blinks at her like he can't believe his girlfriend is presently imitating a porn starlet, at least until her hand boldly caresses his stomach and then strokes his groin until something hardens under its patient ministrations.

That's why she appreciates it when they sleep naked by each other's side: it keeps everything pleasantly simple.

"Please?" She pouts, and there's no need for other words because his palm curls around her backside, roughly hooks her leg around his waist, and then Chuck is sliding all the way inside her in one languid stroke.

It took her the longest time to stop feeling guilty about how much she enjoys having sex with him, but even now she has realized it's not so much about her being _easy,_ but about Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass being compatible in every mysterious, elusive-to-define way possible. It's difficult to grasp how it gets better and better every time they are together. He's a constant revelation to her, one she's ready to experience all the time, one she will never get used to.

His lips slant over hers while his chest presses on hers and his tongue plunders her mouth, his kiss sloppy and his slow thrusts almost deeper than she can stand, splendidly pushing the hazy line between pleasure and pain.

It reaches a point when she can't breathe, with his dick hammering her restlessly and his mouth suffocating her, but then that mouth is on her neck, suckling on her sweaty, all too sensitive skin and the mouthful of air that rushes to her lungs while her hips rise off the mattress to meet him hurts her so good that she would scream it if she had the strength to.

"Love you,"-she gasps, wanting to say it for no better reason than it's true and she doesn't need to hide it anymore- "love you so much. I would do…anything for you."

"That's my girl. Milk me, kitten, milk me for all I'm worth."

That husky growl is all she needs to come undone, really: it bypasses her brain and speaks directly to her cunt, winding her walls tighter around his invading length until they are both on fire and nothing exists but the frustration of not being close enough and the jerky movements of their hips against each other.

Pleasure comes and goes, pain spikes it higher, and they unravel her fast, too fast.

Blair is still mindless, too aware of him to be numb but too incoherent to be sane as she counts the thrusts that separate him from reaching his completion.

It should not feel like some grand achievement, the sensation of his seed spilling inside her welcoming wetness, but it does. Each and every time.

No shame in it, not today, not tomorrow or any day after. It's one of her most prized victories of the year.

"I'm not ever going to get used to this," Chuck exhales against her jaw, his voice somehow dreamy.

"I would hope not. " She smirks, a more innocent contentment flaring through the aftershocks of lustful pleasure.


	9. Chapter 9

Their vacation in the Hamptons lasts barely two days before Blair claims to hate her so-called boyfriend and demands to be taken away, her arms crossed in front of her chest and her full lips in a furious pout.

Personally, Chuck finds it all very endearing, but by the morning of their third day, he truly knows better than to say so. So he feigns affected boredom and tries his luck:

"I think you are blowing it ridiculously out of proportion. "

"This whole situation is ridiculous!" – she snaps back and then her eyes narrow on him, dark with resentment – "It's just you who find all of this _amusing._ "

She doesn't understand how he can be so dense, really. After all they went through to be together, after all the wondering and agonizing, dreaming, longing, aching for things out of reach, how can he be so blasé over the fact that nobody takes them seriously?

The concept alone is offensive to her. Because once he finally said, "I love you," being with him felt like the most natural thing in the world. She never stopped feeling for a fucking second that she was born to love him and be loved by him. So she won't excuse herself for those tears of frustration she has never had the strength to cry or to forget, if horny, perfect-looking models jump out of nothingness to saunter over to _her_ Basshole and giggle in his face at the mere idea of him being _taken_.

Like her relationship was only a joke conjured out of thin air to amuse them or intrigue them.

On second thought, maybe she should be happy that Chuck is at least being so dense over the issue. She should be grateful he doesn't even see her worst nightmare transformed into a mockery every time a skank sways too close to him.

She _should_ be grateful but she is not, not the slightest bit.

"They are _models._ They aren't exactly known for their acumen."

"It doesn't matter! It's humiliating I can't turn my head elsewhere for five effing minutes without finding a slut hovering! Don't you see it's even worse when air-headed human Barbie thinks she can just …disbelieve our relationship? Don't they read Gossip Girl? Even that bitch knows we are for real. Unlike last summer. And now I think about it, this is most surely your fault! If you had not ditched me last year, people would take us seriously now. "

"Mhm"- he rolls his eyes at her, still smirking shamelessly - "I beg you to remember, I was taking the utmost care to establish a reputation of dissolute seducer when you still slayed charming princes. I would be offended if it took just few weeks to lay to waste all my hard work."

Blair's mouth hangs open in outrage for a few seconds, like she can't believe he would have the gall to be so cocky about a matter that troubles her so much, before a dainty hand closes to punch his chest, quick and hard. It just makes his damn smirk spread wider, but she finds, confronted with the wicked delight dancing in his dark eyes, she can't stay mad when he looks so genuinely content. Seeing Chuck so carefree would be a rarity in itself, even if those past months had not been so very difficult.

Besides, he is taking her clenched fist between his larger, elegant hands and kissing the back of her wrist, and that triggers automatic relaxation in all her body.

"Besides"- he drawls, his husky voice warming her blood just enough than she can wonder when the mood has turned from angry to lustful- "what matters is that we take ourselves seriously. Very seriously, in fact. "

Blair pouts, shivering inside at the feeling of his words brushing on her skin along his breath. "I still want to come back to New York"

It's her reign, her territory and she feels more secure there, without beauties in bikinis sprinting from every shadowy corner and coercing her into feeling childish and self-conscious in her most modest bathing suits.

Furthermore, New York is practically another world now they are a real item. She wants to return to those restaurants where she has been to with Nate, those clubs she has visited with Serena, that favorite spot in Central Park where she used to feed ducks and where Chuck has already covertly fingered her while muttering soft-spoken obscenities against her earlobe (probably just to wipe out the memory of Nathaniel kissing her there under falling snowflakes).

There's a wonderland she can't wait to share with _her_ Chuck.

"You never stay in the summer." He comments, casual and skeptic at once, his gaze seeking hers.

And yet, this year she even refused France. After all that had occurred and all that had been said, she couldn't stand to give up her romantic, sex-filled heaven in exchange for recriminating fathers and smothering stepfathers.

"But I love New York." –she sing-songs- "there's no place like home. Especially if Cyrus and my mother are having their lovefest elsewhere."

"Are you insinuating you miss having ours there?"

"Perhaps"

"Mhm. Yet, I don't think running with your tail between your shapely legs would become to you. "

She slaps his chin more lightly than she means to. It doesn't affect him as much she would like, and she blames this on their current proximity. It's not easy to come across as intimidating if your legs feel like jelly.

"A queen should never leave the battlefield unless she does so as a winner. "

"Are you begging me to castrate you?"

"Like you would ever hurt your most cherished appendage."

"You have other appendages to put to use if the main one gets sacrificed. I seem to recall they are almost as effective"

"Settling for second best? You get less Waldorf-like by the moment. Particularly in forgetting I'm not the enemy. "

"Stop skirting around the topic and say whatever you are dying to say, Basshole."

"What is most humiliating"- he breathes in her ear and this time she really can't help but shudder in his arms as he presses her closer- "that you are the legitimate girlfriend of a sexual icon, or that hordes of silly, flexible girls are so desperately missing what you got that they refuse to believe it? "

"You are far too conceited."

And she loves it all the more because his reasoning is starting to make sense. "But so are they, don't you think? Maybe you should remind them."

Blair regards him with a sort of dreamy interest, not sure where this is going but having a feeling she might like it. A plotting Chuck is the source of all good things in her book. Well, unless he is plotting at her expense, but that isn't the current case. "What do you have in mind?"

"Maybe the next time you leave me all alone at the bar and one of them tries to…covet me, rubbing on me like a cat in heat, while I insist on convincing them I'm taken and _obviously_ uninterested, you might get around just in time to explain to her what she doesn't see. Let all the ugly thoughts brewing behind that flawless icy façade out. "

She allows herself to picture the scene in her mind. Her boyfriend harassed again by that trio of Brazilian knock-offs, his unfazed expression as they fawn all over her property… and she descending furiously on them, demonstrating that, yes Chuck Bass actually has a real girlfriend and he isn't interested in changing that, especially in the face of their pathetic desperation: it has potential.

"Sounds like an interesting game."

\---

The _interesting game_ ends up messing with her temper to a degree she had never realized was possible. Blair Waldorf doesn't share well, but this goes beyond it.

Indignation and possessiveness simply rub her in countless wrong ways, and then there's insecurity let loose in a safe, contained way and Chuck on her team, a smarmy and apparently unaffected accomplice whose looks she is the only one to understand. It's thrilling and maddening at the same time and... such an unexpected turn on.

She kisses him in the elevator, almost ripping the jacket from his shoulders, her enthusiasm causing him to soundly bump his back against metal.

 _Mine_ \- her blood sings thrumming in her ears, and she revels in the feeling of his hands eagerly roaming over her buttocks and tugging insistently at her pencil skirt.

Their urgency is the best remedy for her stubborn doubts… if she had feared what would come as they started to lose it in favor of a more slow-burning intimacy, here is the confirmation that it can still be roused, given chance and motivation.

So she pushes harder against the elevator 's wall and reaches for the command panel, smirking wickedly. "Let's not wait" Blair purrs, grabbing his collar and leaning forward again, surprised but not displeased when after a gut-stirring kiss he pulls back to spin her around.

Her body is pliantly bending forward before she has half a chance to realize what he is doing to her.

Even then, her only struggle is to sneak an arm around his head to pull at his hair in retaliation, but the motion makes her unsteady on her feet and she almost falls on the knee that is confidently parting her legs.

Chuck allows her to find her balance, doing flawless work of unbuttoning her shirt and nibbling on her nape at the same time.

Bracing herself on the wall, she feels much like one of those suspects patted down by the police and it's completely undignified but also totally pleasant in a dirty way.

Chuck is the only man she has ever found acceptable to be taken from behind by–she nearly slapped Carter for even suggesting the same, before suppressing the aggressive impulse and instead saying with a smile 'no, thank you'- and it would be so much easier to admit, if she didn't _love_ it. There's just something in Chuck's ability to overthrow her and to out-maneuver her that makes her current position very desirable.

Because deep down she has always wanted to belong to someone, to have someone who belongs to her and who wanted to claim her for himself…and she knows she needs a king to her queen.

Because she will deny it out loud but she loved him for tearing her pristine princess reputation apart, she loved him for driving her to tears when she tried to convince him he was only a dirty fuck and a last resort, she loves him for being her first taste of passion and for bleeding her dry each time she hurt him.

She smiles as firm fingers trace the outline of her underwear before pushing it aside, arching up with a moan into a palm that kneads her breast through her lace bra as Chuck nips her ear and traces the outer shell with his tongue. His voice is a husky murmur almost threatening in its drawling quality "Does it feel good, being such a nasty little bitch?" and that tightens her to the point that a slight teasing of her wet opening from his thumb has her eyes crossing backwards. It's nearly painful and she can swear she has never felt slicker.

"Fuck," she rasps, amazed that she can get any words out considering the parched dryness of her throat.

"That isn't an answer," he glowers, popping her right breast out the cup of her bra to roughly tweak her nipple again and again until she is grinding thoughtlessly on his erection and breathing too hard to remember any answers to any questions.

Raw, exposed, broken, brittle, hungry, incomplete- she feels all that, underneath the unrelenting lust and he is her one cure. Her panacea.

"Fuck me," she insists, a smirk of elation crawling up her lips as memory comes back to her in one empowering moment of insight. "Make me even more of a bitch." and then he is thrusting inside her, groaning in pleasure, filling her to the hilt.

Blair remembers when she did not know desire, when hearing his explicit retellings of his or Serena's sexcapades made her uncomfortable and all her cravings revolved around a spasmodic quest for an engagement ring. She remembers how difficult it was at first, having an affair with Chuck, hating and craving the carnality of it, the loss of control.

Thank God that girl is gone now. Thank God she can dish back as badly as Chuck delivers and feel incredibly good about it

They fuck in perfect, sweaty, animalistic sync and she is unnaturally pleased that his breath is coming out in short spurts and a gasped string of swear words, his body craving release as desperately as hers does.

"You shouldn't swear so much." Blair reprimands, in a girlish, breathy purr that never fails her and here comes exactly what she needs so badly: he clings painfully to her, pounding inside harder and deeper and faster, bringing her closer and closer to the invisible precipice as his thrusts become more driven.

Desire thrums through her like a drug, and there's this wondrous moment when she feels Chuck everywhere outside and inside her body: she's covered with his sweat, his voice, his wants and there's no distance between them, none at all.

But there's release, washing all over her, washing away from the inside out all the restless hunger until there's nothing left but an endless, peaceful space.

And Blair knows she is not alone there, in that unbearable beauty of being: his cheek is flat and warm on her nape, his arm around her waist.

"I don't think I've ever loved you more than I do right now," he promises, sounding so full of wonder that she doesn't know if she should shrug him off her or curl more comfortably around him. .

In the end, she just lets her boyfriend's soothing hands rub softly all along her sore limbs as he gently coaxes her into a standing position, still pretty much hugging her.

 _Does it counts as cuddling?_ –she wonders, suddenly brimming with gleeful affection for her perverted, twisted, controlling, once-upon-a-time coward of a lover.

"You don't need to sound so surprised."

And, once more, the snickering would be more convincing if her fingers weren't interlaced with his.

"I'm still Chuck Bass."

 _He_ would be more convincing if he was not dropping a playful kiss on her jaw. Yet, considering that he is coddling her in his embrace without pulling out of her beforehand and that they are in a public elevator, perhaps he has a point.

"Promise me we will do this back home, too."

"I will be hugely disappointed if we don't, Blair"

\--

The remainder of their summer will become history, richly documented by Gossip Girl's online archives. There will be other games and other fights and the same passion that has kept them going when they were apart and not brave or strong enough to bridge the gap.

Chuck Bass will learn that keeping Blair's hand in his in public is really just another, easy way to let the world know she is his. Bart can be gone but so is the gaping hole his absence had created for years: somehow his beautiful, petite, demanding dictator is all he needs to drive away the guilt and the anger.

For the first time in his life, he can say he is fine and mean it.

Blair Waldorf discovers that the sense of failure that has haunted her for so long has dulled. Standing so close to him, it's easy to forget the fear and the uncertainty of the future. Most of the time she feels weightless, sexy, and –most importantly- whole.

For the first time, she doesn't feel like she is waiting for 'happily-ever-after' so her 'real' life can finally begin. She is happy here and now.

Chuck and Blair aren't optimists so they don't expect their state of grace to last forever, but they have the unspoken confidence that anything the next year brings, they will overcome it.

After all, they have already confronted their worst opponents- themselves, each other - and nothing can scare them more than those.


End file.
